


Never Changes

by tuesday



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fallout AU, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22059841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/pseuds/tuesday
Summary: A mash up of the MCU and Fallout: New Vegas, in which Peter is the Courier and Tony is Mr. House.—Peter honestly thought this was it, standing at the side of an empty grave with a gun to the back of his head.  He said, "If you really feel that bad about it, you don't have to shoot me."The man in the checkered suit didn't feel that bad about it.  He shot Peter.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Kudos: 17





	Never Changes

**Author's Note:**

> A few F:NV characters managed to hang on in this, but most of them are replaced by MCU or other Marvel characters. This is the other fic I'm posting for my own personal wip amnesty at the end of this year. I don't anticipate ever finishing this, but I hope you find something you enjoy in what's here. I had fun playing with two of my favorite properties, even if I wandered away from it before I really got deep into the plot or the Peter/Tony parts.
> 
> For warnings, in addition to the tags, there's a bit of implied surveillance bordering on minor voyeurism. As always, feel free to ask if you have any questions.

Peter honestly thought this was it, standing at the side of an empty grave with a gun to the back of his head. He said, "If you really feel that bad about it, you don't have to shoot me."

The man in the checkered suit didn't feel that bad about it. He shot Peter.

—

He woke up on the couch in the living room of Goodsprings's local doctor. 

"You were an interesting case," Strange said dismissively when Peter tried to thank him. He ran Peter through some tests, and when they were over, he tapped at Peter's forehead, next to the closed wound. "I think the bullet might've actually done you some good."

"I don't think that's how it works," Peter said slowly.

"Are you a neurosurgeon?"

"No, but—"

"Then get dressed. You don't want to scandalize the locals. They have enough problems without a half-naked teenager running around."

"I'm twenty-two," Peter said.

"Good for you. Take the clothes."

Peter took the clothes. He also took a pip-boy that Strange had picked up somewhere and apparently had no more use for than the vault clothes he just happened to have on hand. 

"But what happened to my actual clothing?" Peter asked.

"If you want to try getting the blood and grave dirt out, be my guest, but I'm not a wizard." Strange's lips twitched, well, strangely at that last, like he was enjoying his own private joke. "I'm certainly not running a laundromat."

"Can you tell me anything about how I ended up here?"

"A Mr. Handy found you. It rolled up to my house after dark with your body in its arms and demanded I work miracles. I did, and here you are."

Here Peter was, in a little town in the middle of nowhere, package stolen, wondering what the penalties were for failing a contract and whether getting shot in the head counted as exigent circumstances. Knowing his luck, probably not.

"Go ask it questions if you're so curious. It's squatting in one of the empty houses at the edge of town."

It was somewhere to start, so Peter did.

—

The Mr. Handy had a surprisingly decent AI. It was excited to see him up and about. Its AI wasn't that good, though, because it offered him a smoothie and then tried to give him motor oil.

"I'm, uh, I'm good, thanks." Peter could see a few other dusty glasses littering the coffee table with traces of motor oil in them, too. There was a plastic plant in the corner that had suspicious dark streaks across it. "I was wondering if you could tell me anything about what happened."

"I saw the whole thing!" the Mr. Handy said excitedly. "They were like, BLAM BLAM, and you went ZOOOOM, but then the other guy got you with the shovel! You all talked a while. And then they shot you in the head!" A sad face appeared on the screen. "You didn't look so good, so I took you to Doctor Strange." The face turned cheerful once more. "And he fixed you! Look at you go! Walking around on your own two feet again!"

"That's. That's very helpful, thank you. Do you know anyone else who might have seen anything?"

"Nope. But the guys who shot you might have stopped at the bar on their way through!"

So Peter went to the bar, where he somehow got roped into clearing out geckos from the water source, fixed a radio, and got involved in a minor gang conflict. Honestly, other than getting shot in the head, this was a pretty normal week for him.

"I can see why you got shot if you insist on bringing your fists to a gun fight." Gwen did not look impressed by Peter's life choices. 

"I don't kill people," Peter said firmly.

"Good for you, but we don't have a jail in this town, and these guys were only here because they broke out of the one down the road."

"They're here for the caravan guy—" Peter hooked a thumb at said guy, who'd wanted to play card games and seemed generally uninterested in facing down the guys who were trying to kill him. "—and he's moving on soon."

"They'll be gunning for you now, too."

"Yeah." Peter rubbed at the healing wound on his forehead. "But they'll have to get in line."

—

Peter followed the path the people who'd shot him had taken. He ran into a few more of the gang members—Powder Gangers, they were called—and though they grumbled after him, they didn't leave their camps to attack him. 

He also came across someone who did attack him after claiming ravenous geckos were about to eat his injured girlfriend. It turned out the geckos were real, but the girlfriend was not. There was a prospector's camp sitting empty that the guy thought might have something valuable in it, and he'd needed someone to clear a path. Once that was done, he pulled out a gun.

Peter put the guy in a headlock. "If you weren't strong enough to beat the geckos, why would you think you were stronger than someone who felt confident in clearing a whole nest of them?"

"Lesson learned!" the guy yelped. "Lesson very learned!"

"It better be, because the next person you try to pull this on may well kill you." Peter took the guy's gun and pointed him to the closest town. "The road's safe that way, but you don't get to keep a gun you used to shoot at me."

At the bottom of the hill, he came across the Mr. Handy again. "Are you following me?"

"Just making sure you didn't need more help!" The Mr. Handy flashed a cheerful face. "It would be a shame if Dr. Strange had to go digging more bullets out of your brain!"

"Er, thanks." 

The next town he came to had more Powder Gangers, except they'd split off from the main group in order to start their own petty fiefdom. They'd killed the sheriff and kidnapped the deputy and they were very, very annoying to subdue. Peter was running out of rope.

"You know we're just going to hang them all, right?" asked Nash, the guy in charge of the post office.

Peter knew. Mojave justice wasn't always kind, and they'd killed the sheriff's wife, too. Maybe he could've handed them all over to the NCR camp across the way, but the NCR jail was where these guys had all come from.

Nash had some information about the delivery Peter was supposed to make, along with the five other deliveries assigned from the same source. One of the Couriers hadn't made it more than five feet from the local post office. 

"Someone really wanted Mr. Stark's mail," Peter said.

"I'd say to do yourself a favor and stay out of it," Nash said, "but a delivery's a delivery, and you need to retrieve the one you lost."

"I'm trying. Anything else you can tell me?" 

Nash looked thoughtful. "Rumor is the Legion's been spotted on this side of the river. They've been getting bolder. Knowing your luck, you're going to run into them."

Peter really, really wished that wasn't true.

—

Before he got that far, there were fire ants, radscorpions, more fire ants, giant radscorpions, some raiders, and this whole ridiculous thing with supposedly lucky bottle caps. 

"I can't believe she tried to kill me over a stupid necklace!" the guy with the stupid necklace said.

"I can't believe you wouldn't just hand it over!" the girl who threatened someone over a stupid necklace said.

"I can't believe how quickly everyone in this place is willing to kill each other. You are both in time out."

Peter carried them both up the road and up the hill to the closest NCR outpost. They owed him for the fire ants.

—

He found himself regretting the detour. Maybe if he'd been a little sooner—

Then again, maybe he'd just have died with the townspeople. There were two survivors, not counting all the people nailed to the crosses of the town's main road. Those didn't make it long past Peter getting them down.

Peter really, really hated the Legion.

—

Peter ran into the Mr. Handy again at Novac. 

"You could travel with me," Peter offered.

"I sort of am!" the Mr. Handy said. "Except not at all."

Peter went to deal with the ghouls at the nearby REPCONN facility. On the way, he confiscated a machine gun from a confused nightkin.

—

By the time Peter ran into the Mr. Handy outside of Boulder City, he felt like he'd had a very, very long week, not even taking into account being shot in the head.

"You saved them," the Mr. Handy said. It wasn't as excitable as before. "All of them. Even the goons you were tracking down."

"If I can help and I don't, it's my fault if ... something bad happens."

"They tried to kill you."

"No, they didn't. They were just willing to dig the grave."

The Mr. Handy stared at him. "That's not better."

"Maybe not." Peter hefted his bag. "But they just wanted to go home. I can understand that."

Peter headed for the city lights. The Mr. Handy watched him go. Peter didn't doubt it would catch up.

—

By the time Peter made it into the city proper, he couldn't help but wonder if it would be better to let the man in the checkered suit just have the chip. For such a small package, it had caused Peter no end of trouble. Peter made it a few steps in past the checkpoint when he was held up by a Mr. Handy, though not one of the security guards patrolling the Strip.

"You made it safely! I knew you could do it!" the Mr. Handy said.

"Yes," Peter said flatly. He couldn't even count the number of cuts and bruises he'd acquired and healed, not to mention the broken limbs. If not for stimpacks and the doctors he'd come across along the way, he'd be a limping mess right now. "Safely."

"Now that you're here, Mr. Stark would like to see you."

"I haven't gotten the package back yet."

"He's aware! He'd like to see you anyway."

Peter sighed. "Do I get a choice in this?"

"Not at all!"

Peter let the Mr. Handy escort him to the tower in the middle of town, its spire reaching above the rest. The Mr. Handy only took him as far as the elevator on the bottom floor. Peter maybe gaped a little. He maybe gaped a lot. No one had been inside Stark Tower in Peter's lifetime. There was an awful lot of dust, but it still looked really cool in an abandoned sort of way. All the furniture was glass and metal, and Peter could only imagine how it would have gleamed if anyone had actually cleaned in the last few decades.

"You'll want the Penthouse Suite! FRIDAY can take you from here."

"FRIDAY?" Peter asked. He didn't see any other robots.

"Yes, Mr. Parker," came a woman's voice. "Please, step into the elevator."

Peter stepped into the elevator. He didn't have to push anything; one of the buttons lit up on its own. Weird, tinny music played as it took him to the top. Another Mr. Handy greeted him as the elevator doors opened. The television screen embedded in it displayed a woman's face.

"May I take your coat?"

"I'm, um, I'm good."

"I insist." Peter handed over the long dustcoat that had accompanied him across half the Mojave. It left a streak of dirt across the robot's arm, but it looked unperturbed. "This way, please."

The room he was led to was spacious, all floor to ceiling windows faced by the biggest television screen Peter had ever seen. There were electronics crammed around it. The last time Peter had seen so much computer equipment was looking at the REPCONN control room. On second thought, there may have been less stuff there.

There were a couple armchairs and a low couch, along with a coffee table, but no other person in sight. Peter called out a cautious, "Hello? Mr. Stark?"

The television along the wall lit up with a man's face. "Hello, Mr. Parker. Or would you prefer Courier Six?"

"Either's fine," Peter said awkwardly. 

He didn't know why he was disappointed—no one had seen Mr. Stark in person for even longer than Stark Tower had been closed to the public—but he unaccountably was. The face on the screen was kind of handsome, in an older sort of way. Mr. Stark had a carefully kept goatee and laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. His hair was dark like it had been dyed. He didn't look like he was over a hundred years old, but then again, there was no guarantee this was the same Tony Stark who had been an industrialist and tech giant before the bombs fell.

"Hm." Despite the screen, Mr. Stark seemed to scrutinize him, weighing his character without ever actually laying eyes on him. "Mr. Parker, then. I'm sure you have questions."

"Does that mean you're going to answer them?"

Mr. Stark's eyes crinkled. "Ask them, and we'll see."

Mr. Stark answered some of Peter's question about the package, but only in a vague, dismissive way. Apparently in the poker chip was an actual computer chip, far more valuable than the casing. The man in the checkered suit was a business associate of Mr. Stark's who'd proven less than reliable. Mr. Stark actually was the Tony Stark, genius billionaire and really old man.

"But you don't look like you're over fifty!"

Mr. Stark winced a little, but he spoke glibly when he said, "I have a fantastic skincare regimen."

"Sorry, I just meant—you don't look like you're a ghoul."

"I'm not."

"Or, or one of those brains in a jar." Peter had had some really weird experiences. "Then again, I guess you wouldn't if all I'm seeing is your avatar."

"I'm not one of those, either," Mr. Stark said. "I don't—is that even a thing?"

"I'm sure I couldn't say." Literally. The Big MT kept its secrets, and Peter couldn't speak of it except in the vaguest workarounds.

Mr. Stark narrowed his eyes. "Let's put a pin in that for the moment. Do you think you're ready to confront Justin Hammer or did you have more questions?"

Peter had a hundred more questions, but he had the feeling Mr. Stark was done answering them. "I guess I'm ready."

"Then I'll see you when you've got my chip."

—

The truth was, Peter was a sucker, and when Justin Hammer agreed to speak to him, but in the Presidential Suite of the Tops, Peter went. He didn't know what he was expecting from someone who'd shot him in the head and left him to die, but it really should've been that he'd send more goons to shoot him again.

Peter left them tied up in front of the wet bar and went to tell Mr. Stark that he'd lost the chip again.

Tony sighed deeply. "He's an idiot. He's running right for Legion territory if he wants to actually use the thing. I'm sure they'll give him a warm welcome."

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "I just thought you should know before I try catching up to him."

" _If_ you go, and that's a big if, the bunker for activating the control chip is on that side of the river." Tony tapped a finger against his lips, and Peter kind of hated himself a little for how his eyes and thoughts were drawn there despite the topic at hand. "FRIDAY could hook you up with some stealth boys, but you want to limit your use. You wouldn't believe the long-term effects they have."

Peter would. He'd met his share of nightkin, and not just at REPCONN. "Actually, I kind of. Have an open invitation."

"You have an open invitation to the Legion's main camp," Tony said flatly.

"In my defense, if I'd known the guy was a Legion big-wig, I probably would have left him to die."

Tony's stare was piercing. "I don't believe that."

Peter slumped. "Okay, probably not, but I'd have taken him to be arrested before his back-up arrived."

"That, I can believe."

Tony encouraged him to take advantage of his unfortunate contacts. Peter did. 

He ended up on a boat, crossing the river, looking back across the docks at a cage full of people with radio detonator collars and wanting to burn the Legion down wherever he found it, until their ideals and practices were forgotten with the name. It wasn't an auspicious start, but it fit what followed.

—

In Peter's defense, he didn't mean to end up in the middle of a hundred person brawl. These things just happened, especially when one was faced with the terrible conditions of a bunch of slaves, abused dogs, and one's very own very apologetic would-be murderer. Anyone else would be dead by now, but Peter was once bitten by a very large, very radioactive spider, and instead of dying, he'd gotten superpowers. It was probably how he'd survived being shot in the head, along with all the other terrible things that had happened to him over the years.

"Just. Stay. Down." A legionary attempted to bludgeon Peter's skull in while he was on the ground and waiting for the stimpack to kick in just enough for his femurs to no longer be in so many pieces.

Peter got up again.

—

Peter bundled the little slave girl he'd found kicking one of the unconscious legionaries in the balls into Hammer's arms. "Congrats, it's a girl. If you ever want me to forgive you, you'll take very good care of her."

Hammer hefted the girl up against his shoulder. Uncertainly, he said, "My husband was interested in adopting, but—"

"It's fate," Peter said cheerfully.

"I hope the dogs get hungry and eat his face," said the little girl, who apparently held some sort of grudge against the guy in charge of the kennels. Something about a teddy bear?

Peter left them with the others who were stealing boats and headed for the NCR side of the river. He headed back into camp. He had a control chip he'd finally retrieved, and Mr. Stark had asked him to use it.

What Peter actually found—

"That, uh, that's a lot of robots, Mr. Stark." He stared at the tattered remains of the target. "And they can all do that?"

"That's not all," Mr. Stark said. "Wait until you see the flamethrowers in action."

Peter did not want to see the flamethrowers in action. Peter just wanted the day to be over. He wasn't enthused about anyone having this much power. Still, if it was this or the Legion— 

At least Mr. Stark had made and kept New Vegas a place of safety for everyone who flocked to its borders. Peter had been to a lot of places during his time as a Courier. New Vegas was by far the nicest, and not just because it had working plumbing and Mr. Handies who swept the streets.

Peter slotted in the control chip and activated it.

—

On the way back, he stopped by some docks and tore down some fencing. He beat up some people (maybe forty all told; it was a much smaller encampment), deactivated some slave collars, and acted as escort to the nearest major NCR camp. There were also a couple people on crosses at the roadside. They survived being taken down this time.

"You're going to be vilified," a young woman in his group told Peter in awe.

"I'm okay with that," Peter said. And he really, really was.

The Legion hit squads were going to be annoying, though.

—

It took him awhile to make it back New Vegas. There were fire geckos, deathclaws, more raiders, and Legion hit squads, plus the detour to take the guy from the Khans home. He'd said he could make it on his own, but he was looking kind of peaky from having baked in the sun for most of a day. Then, of course, there were a few things he could help with around the Khan camp. He was able to convince a drug dealer to go into medicine, which was pretty neat, and the Khans entrusted him to take a poetry-loving teenager back with him to join the Followers of the Apocalypse.

The teenager wanted Peter's opinion on his latest work. It was a long, long trip.

It was late at night by the time Peter had gotten everything settled at the Old Mormon Fort, and he longed to stop at the Atomic Wrangler to take advantage of one of their grimy beds. He pushed through it and pushed through the doors to Stark Tower. The elevator doors stood open for him, and Peter listed against the wall as he watched the numbers climb.

Mr. Stark's visage awaited him. "Very good work, Mr. Parker!" He clapped his hands. "A little slow getting back, but A+ on the execution."

"Thank you, Mr. Stark," Peter got out around a yawn.

"You are definitely getting a bonus."

"I didn't do it for the caps." Peter yawned again. "Though they will help with renting a room for the night. I'm looking forward to a shower and an actual bed."

"I have plenty of bedrooms here," Mr. Stark said. "You're welcome to one."

"I wouldn't want to impose—"

"You're not imposing," Mr. Stark cut him off. His eyes softened. "You look like you're about to fall over. Get some rest. We'll talk more in the morning."

FRIDAY directed Peter to a bedroom. He took note only of the large bed and the clawed foot bathtub in the attached bathroom. He was too tired to manage more than a cursory wash to get clean before stumbling for the bed and, flopping facedown on the covers, falling asleep.

—

"Good morning, Mr. Parker. Room service!"

Apparently this place came with a wake-up call in the form of breakfast in bed. A Mr. Handy let itself in holding a tray piled with food and drinks. There was a glass of water, a bottle each of Nuka-Cola and Sunset Sarsaparilla, and what looked like cactus juice. For food, there were thin cuts of meat that looked like they had been fried, some sort of scrambled egg Peter was really hoping wasn't ant, noodles, and a few vegetables.

"That's all for me?" Peter asked.

"Mr. Stark thought you were looking thin." The Mr. Handy paused. "Belay that." The smiling face on its TV shivered and turned to static for a moment. It put the tray on the bed. "Just eat the food, Mr. Parker."

Peter ate the food. He didn't know where Mr. Stark's robots got fresh food from, but it was surprisingly good. If he had to guess, he'd say the meat was brahmin. He was very determinedly not guessing on the eggs. He put aside the Nuka-Cola and Sunset Sarsaparilla (he really didn't need the extra rads or the caffeine at the moment), but drank the water and juice. He mixed the noodles with the vegetables. It was a filling meal, and it felt good to be full, to not worry about stretching his supplies between towns and outposts and supplementing with what he could forage along the way.

The Mr. Handy waited patiently. It watched him eat every bite, and when he was done, it took the tray, but left him the soda. It asked, "Did you need anything else?"

"I'm good," Peter said.

"Soap, shampoo? Fresh towels?"

Peter stared. "You have shampoo?" Almost no one bothered to make soap that was used just for hair, but Peter had gotten to try some once. It smelled _so nice_.

"You'll get the works," the Mr. Handy promised. It went away while Peter stripped and rolled to a stop just inside the door when it came back. It had another tray full of bath oils, lotions, several different types of soap, shampoo, and something called conditioner. It also brought new towels, draped over its arms. Just one had enough fabric to make a new outfit, almost. 

Peter took the tray and one of the towels. "Thank you very much!"

"You're welcome." The robot lingered. Peter tried to remember what he'd heard about old-timey hotels. Was he supposed to leave a tip? Abruptly, the Mr. Handy said, "Let me know if you need anything else."

It turned on its axis and rolled straight back out of the room. Peter called after it, "Thanks again!"

He hummed happily to himself as he filled the tub and took his first real bath in years. After, he used the water to wash his dirtiest sets of clothes and hung them to dry over the bathtub. If Mr. Stark wanted him to clear out in a hurry, Peter could just drag them to Freeside and prevail upon the patience of the Followers some more. He'd done them enough favors of the years that he was sure they wouldn't mind.

When he left his room, a Mr. Handy was watching the door. It opened the elevator for him. It was a much shorter trip up this time. Mr. Stark was waiting for him, though once again it was as a face on a television screen. He had a small smile on his face, lips curved gently. He looked both fond and pleased.

"Sleep well?" Mr. Stark asked.

"Your bed was amazing," Peter said. "Er, the bed. The bed was amazing. The room is really great. Thanks for letting me use it."

Mr. Stark's smile widened. "You're welcome." His face moved back some, like he was rocking back on his heels. "No, really, you're welcome. Come back any time. Keep it, if you'd like."

"I couldn't—"

"I insist. It'll make it easier to have you close by."

"Mr. Stark?"

"That is, if you're amenable, I was thinking that you could come work for me. Decent pay and benefits, roughly the same dangers, and it's steady work. You've proven you're reliable, and I'm finding that's an invaluable trait in an agent. My robots can only do so much. What do you say, Mr. Parker?" His cheerful face didn't invite anything but a yes. "Would you like to be the first SI employee hired in over a hundred years?"

"I'm flattered," Peter said slowly, "but I kind of already have a job."

Mr. Stark waved a hand dismissively. "No one wants to be a glorified postal worker."

"That's exactly what I want to be." Being a Courier gave Peter a lot of freedom, was forgiving of all the times he had to go a little out of his way to help someone out, and it let him meet a lot of people and see a lot of places that could use the help. It wasn't perfect—Peter carried the scars both physical and psychological of the ways everything could go wrong, and there was an entire postal route cut off by radioactivity and a town gone, thanks to him, thanks to the way he'd drawn the attention of different groups to the ways those places could flourish—but it was everything Peter knew and everything he'd ever wanted to be. Maybe it wasn't particularly glamorous and maybe he didn't eat as well as he'd like and, yeah, maybe it got really, really lonely, but he'd made friends and could at least reassure himself that whatever the outcome, he'd done the best that he could. "I really like my work."

Mr. Stark leaned forward. The lines in his face suddenly cut deep. "Interesting. Final answer?"

"Final answer," Peter said firmly.

"Well. What about contracting? You have a tendency to pick up side jobs. Pick some up from me."

"I, uh, I guess?" Peter hadn't expected it to be that easy. Mr. Stark didn't seem like the type of person who take a professional no for an answer without trying out a few different tactics first to get that yes. "If it fits with my schedule."

"Excellent." Mr. Stark smiled again. "I'll make you a list of things you can handle at your convenience. You can keep the room. You can keep the whole floor, really. I'm not using it. If you invite anyone over, make sure they clean up after themselves. Oh, and I've taken the liberty of sending your clothes to actually be laundered. They'd take forever to dry otherwise."

The list had popped out of a printer in the corner of the room. It was really long and pretty thorough. There was no way Peter would have the time to finish it all before his next Courier job. "Mr. Stark, I think there's—"

"No need to thank me, all part of the service. And with that taken care of, I have some other things urgently calling for my attention."

"But there's—"

"Ciao!" Tony waved just before the television screen blinked off.

The Mr. Handy with the woman's face said, "Let me escort you out."

"There's no way I can do all this!" Peter waved the list.

Blandly, it said, "Mr. Stark has the utmost confidence in you."

"It's physically impossible. I'd have to be three people even if the post office didn't have anything for me."

"He did say there was no rush."

But that wasn't true. Some of the things on the list looked urgent.

"If you're looking for places to start, may I suggest the Ultra-Luxe?" The Mr. Handy handed him through the elevator doors.

Peter glared impotently as the doors closed. To the empty elevator, to himself, he said, "But I said no to the job."

But Mr. Stark was exactly as bad at accepting that as Peter had thought he would be, and Peter had foolishly given him a foot in the door, which was as good as signing over the whole house.

—

Peter started at the Ultra-Luxe. Apparently all those rumors were true about the White Glove Society's past and someone there wanted to make it their present, too. Peter rescued someone from a walk-in freezer, locked someone else in for a couple hours, and cooked a meal for a group of once and would-be cannibals. He wasn't particularly stealthy, but no one ever looked up at the banquet hall's high, arched ceilings. He hung out there until the big reveal that everyone had violated the taboo Mr. Stark had instituted before he agreed to let them work with him.

"You are all complicit," the guy who'd put this all in motion gloated. "Do you truly believe Mr. Stark would distinguish between us now? And was this not the sweetest, most succulent meat you've had in years?"

Peter dropped right next to the podium. "Yeah, brahmin is pretty good." 

There were murmurs of confusion, of disgruntlement. "That is not brahmin, but human flesh. And you are not supposed to be in here!"

"I helped make it. It's _definitely_ brahmin. You don't think I used too much seasoning, do you?" The guy took a swing at Peter. "Everyone's a critic."

The White Glove Society members stood. They hefted their canes and surrounded them both. A white-haired woman in a mask and formal dress strode forward. "He's right. You're not supposed to be in here." Peter had just long enough to get nervous before she made a gesture and the crowd absorbed him in his ranks. "But as you have done us a great favor, you may watch."

To the now cowering man in the mob's center, she spoke grandly, "You have admitted to breaking the taboo and to trying to force it upon us all. What say you in your defense?"

"You all wanted it! You all want it still! Who is Mr. Stark to tell us what to do?"

"He is our benefactor, and we agreed to abide by the rules of his city. What is a city or society without its rules and regulations?" What Peter could see of her face was rigid. Her voice was incensed. " _Raiders_. We are never going back."

She lifted her chin as she turned her back to him. "What say the rest of you? Are you for Mr. Stark? For Ultra-Luxe and New Vegas? For _the White Glove Society_?" A cheer went up. She smiled in cold satisfaction. She turned her head. "You have your answer." She waved her hand again. "Ladies, gentleman, I believe it is time to remind our friend that civilized is not soft. We all know the penalty for his transgression."

After it was done, one of the men in masks and formal wear dragged the body from the room. The woman took out a handkerchief and cleaned the handle of her cane. Around her, several other people were doing the same.

"You have done us a great favor," the woman repeated to Peter almost casually, conversationally. "And an even greater one to me personally. I would not have long survived such a change in direction. Even now, years later, many live on the edge of being overcome by their baser natures, and I am known as a firm supporter of Mr. Stark's. Name your boon. If you wish, though membership is selective, you could join our ranks."

"That's, uh, flattering, but—" Peter rubbed the back of his head. "I'm not really interested in joining any new clubs right now."

Her eyes glittered behind her mask. "It is a privilege, but not one that will be forced upon you. The Society will, however, hold you in highest regard, with all the respect given honorary members." She tapped a finger against his chest. Her voice was a purr. "Do let us know if there's anything we can do for you."

"I'll keep that in mind?"

"Do that." She swept past him.

He called after her, "What's your name?"

She paused. Her lips curved. "My title in the Society is Black Cat, but you, Peter Parker, may call me Felicia."

"How is it everyone always knows who I am?" Peter said as he watched the train of her dress disappear around the corner.

One of the people cleaning up gestured around them. "Because you're always getting involved in stuff like this."

One of his fellows hushed him. He shrugged and went back to trying to get bits of brain matter and skull fragments out of the table cloth. Peter, tired and faintly nauseated, went to get the chef out of the walk-in freezer. He'd turned the cold off, but he knew from experience it was no fun being trapped in one of those.

—

He went to Gomorrah next. He ended up in an office with a machine gun pointed at his gut while two people argued. He made the argument a little worse with a few pointed comments. The gun stopped being pointed at him, but he moved too slow to stop it from firing.

—

Peter went back to the Tower. A Mr. Handy greeted him at the bottom. "Mr. Stark wants to see you."

He took the elevator to the top, though what he really wanted was a bath and change of clothes. He didn't have the energy to argue. Mr. Stark was waiting for him, though the smile slid right off his face once he actually started paying attention.

"What the hell happened?"

"Legion agents, double-dealing, and someone who really wanted a promotion." Peter didn't sit on the couch. He never did, but this time there was the blood to consider. Peter had taken the time to wash his hands (he'd tried and failed to stop the bleeding, but that was what happened when someone was more holes than body; there was no one to arrest this time), but somehow he'd gotten more on them. It was all over his shirt and soaked into his cuffs and the knees of his slacks. It was cold and tacky where it rested against his skin. 

"At the Ultra-Luxe?" Peter honestly couldn't tell if any of that concern in Mr. Stark's eyes was for him.

He shook his head. "Nah. There, someone just wanted to start serving the other white meat." He rubbed his fingers together, but it just smeared the blood around. "The leadership didn't agree."

"Ms. Hardy generally does a good job keeping her people in line."

"Mm."

"Mr. Parker, how much of that blood is yours?"

"A little bit." It was fine. He'd had worse. Peter was really sturdy and he healed fast once he got a chance to rest. It was merely a matter of enduring what it took to get there.

Mr. Stark's voice was flat. "It looks to me like that blood stain on your shirt is spreading."

"Oh." That would explain the dripping. "I kind of. Ran out of stimpacks." It couldn't be that bad. He was kind of dizzy, but he was mostly walking straight. He'd made it out of the hotel, down the street, and all the way up the Tower without falling over once.

"Far be it from me to micromanage how you get the job done, but I think you need a doctor."

Peter shook his head. "Just a bath and a doctor's bag. Did you want to hear about what happened at Gomorrah?"

"Mr. Parker, I think I'm going to have to insist."

"You can always fire me." Peter would prefer that, to be honest. Usually he got a little downtime in between seeing the worst humanity had to offer, but this felt like it was going to be one long list of terrible experiences, lined up one after the other. 

"I don't think I could." Mr. Stark's voice was thoughtful. "Get out of here. Take care of yourself. You can always write up a report and leave it with one of the Mr. Handies."

Peter went. He sat in the nice claw-footed bathtub and picked bullets out of himself one piece of metal at a time. He'd discovered years ago that they were a literal pain to heal around, though they did eventually push their way out if he left them. He paused several times to liberally douse the area with liquor. He didn't often get infections these days, but it was better to be careful where he could be.

(It would be better not to be shot, but this was the life Peter had chosen—the life they all led, really. Supposedly, once upon a time, things were different, but that world had ended in a rain of fire long before Peter was born. Peter lived in the only world he'd ever known. It was violent and it was painful, but it was his.)

When he was done stitching himself up, he cleaned up—first the bathtub and then himself. The clothes Mr. Stark had taken to be laundered were laid out on the bed. Peter pulled some on. He went back out. If two of the three Families were having problems, he should probably check the third had nothing more going on than the Justin Hammer thing.

—

"Oh, good, I need to talk to you." Hammer was standing just inside the Tops at the reception desk and he waved the security guards impatiently away. "Let him through. The only weapons he carries are his fists, and we can't confiscate those."

"Is that little girl settling in?" Peter asked.

"My husband is very happy with our new daughter." Hammer smiled, but shook it off. He grabbed Peter's arm. "Come with me. I have something I need to show you."

The last time Peter had gone somewhere with Hammer, he'd ended up in the middle of a Legion camp. The last time he'd gone somewhere Hammer had directed, he'd been shot at. Hammer remained the man who'd shot Peter in the head.

Peter went with Hammer anyway. What was he going to do? Shoot him again?

—

This was almost worse. "You suborned one of his Mr. Handies?"

Hammer rubbed his hands together in a quick, nervous gesture. " _I_ didn't."

"I don't think technicalities are going to help you here!" Peter hadn't known Mr. Stark for very long, but everyone knew how protective he was of his robots. Really, knowing him sort of in person had only reinforced that impression. So much of the Tower was dusty, in disuse, but every one of the Mr. Handies Peter had seen had been in full repair. They practically gleamed. "He really may kill you for this."

"Technicalities might not help me, but I was hoping you would."

Peter sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

—

The first thing Peter did was sneak the Mr. Handy out of the building. He certainly wasn't going to trust Hammer with it. The Followers owed him (every time he turned around, he was accruing more favors from them), but he had the feeling they'd just deactivate the poor thing and turn it into scrap metal and scrap electronics repurposed for a windmill somewhere. He couldn't take it to Mr. Stark unless he wanted Hammer to die, and he'd already gone to a lot of effort saving the guy's life.

But someone had just offered him a boon. Someone loyal to Stark who (probably) wouldn't try using it and (Peter hoped) wouldn't turn him in.

"When you said you wanted to see me again so soon and in one of our complimentary member rooms, this is not what I was expecting." Felicia walked around the Mr. Handy, taking in every detail. "You are a very interesting person, Courier."

Peter couldn't tell if Courier was a step up or down from Peter Parker. "I'm going to try to fix him, but I don't want anything happening to him in the meanwhile."

"I'm happy to wait!" Yes-Man said.

"Just—keep him hidden here and don't let anyone use him." Peter had already gotten Yes-Man to agree to only answer to him. Yes-Man was happy to restrict admin access. He was happy to do anything anyone asked him until Peter had talked with him a bit and fiddled with his programming.

"What could they use him for?" Peter really didn't like that look of consideration in her eyes. He'd just have to trust Yes-Man wouldn't hurt her too bad if she tripped the security system.

"He knows a lot of jokes."

"I do!"

"And no other functions?"

"Nothing anyone's going to use," Peter said firmly.

"Hm. Very well. If this is how you want to cash in your favor, we'll let you use the room. It won't be the first time we've used these rooms to accommodate an actual guest."

"Thank you," Peter said. "Just, uh, keep in mind he's got his orders to defend himself. So don't let anyone mess with him that you wouldn't want, um, vaporized."

Felicia took a step back. "I will definitely keep that in mind."

—

Peter knew a lot about computers, but not so much he was confident reprogramming a Mr. Handy to return it to its previous rudimentary AI, no memories of being a cheerful, robot-sized security breach. It was a good thing he'd made friends over the years. Less good was that they were so spread out. The last he'd seen Ned, he was helping out at the power plant that had once been a giant, terrifying weapon.

Peter stopped by the Tower to grab his stuff, packing all the clean clothes into a knapsack with easy familiarity. The Mr. Handy that tried to feed him lunch when Peter had arrived had let him keep all the bottles of Nuka-Cola and Sunset Sarsaparilla, so Peter added those, too. He collected the caps Mr. Stark had had delivered to the room for the two contract jobs. There were stimpacks, as well, and Peter added those to the pockets of the knapsack and his dust jacket with a breath of relief that he wouldn't need to stop by the clinic on the way out of town. He was pretty sure Dr. Cho was getting sick of seeing him.

On the same floor as his room was a workshop with several different workbenches, including an armorer's bench and a chemistry station. There was also a fully equipped kitchen beside it. Peter took the opportunity to do some repairs to the leather armor he wore out into the Mojave and to rig up a couple auto-inject stimpacks. He also assembled a couple desert lunches out of the tray piled high with food the Mr. Handy had given him. He had some fresh fruits and vegetables left over, which he stored as a treat beside the jerky and dried noodles he still had in there.

"Headed out, Mr. Parker?" asked the Mr. Handy stationed by the elevator.

Peter adjusted his knapsack. "Hopefully I'll be back in a few days." He'd be slower returning than going, and it might take some convincing to get Ned to leave his post. Mr. Fantastic had no idea what he was doing—the last Peter had seen, Ned had him distracted with a broken bit of the PA system Fantastic was convinced would increase the power output—but neither Ned nor Peter trusted him not to mess something up left unsupervised. They might need to come up with another busywork project first. "A week at most."

"And your list?"

"Mr. Stark did say there was no rush. Beside, there's some related stuff I can take care of while I'm gone." Peter hated traveling over the hills—all those cazadors and deathclaws strongly outweighed the view—but he could stop by Sloane first before crossing over into the desert proper. Though if he were already heading toward Sloane—Peter sighed and resigned himself to doing the full circuit. On the way out of Freeside, he picked up some stuff from the post box. Some of it was to deliver, but some of it was stuff he'd collected along the way and shipped on.

He stocked up on more supplies at the main caravan trade and resupply post. One of the traders had gotten in a bunch of surgical tubing and had remembered to hold some aside for him. Another had some books he'd been looking for. He picked up more dried and preserved food, stimpacks and radaway, more rope, and a few other odds and ends. It didn't put too much of a dent in his savings; he still had a ton of pipe guns and knives and an extra machete he needed to get rid of. His pack was lighter going out than going in.

Peter turned south. He might get to avoid the hills this time, but from what he'd read and heard, he was headed right toward a nest of deathclaws that had taken up in the quarry. Good thing he had decided against selling all those frag grenades.

—

"That's not a nest," Peter said. "That's an infestation."

It wasn't just a mom, a dad, and a few juveniles Peter would feel bad about putting down for getting too close to the roads or a human settlement. There were a plethora of aunts, uncles, cousins, and great-grandparents, too. With his binoculars, he counted over thirty deathclaws, all told. It looked like he probably would need to start doing culling sweeps a bit further off the roads again, no matter how guilty it made him feel.

"Sure you can handle this, son?" asked one of the workers sitting with a shotgun at the outskirts of town.

"Volunteering to come with me?" Peter asked.

"Hell, no. You couldn't pay me enough caps to face even one of those old, blind ones."

"Yeah." Peter sighed. "I don't do it for the money."

"Good, because we don't have much to pay you."

People usually didn't. Mr. Stark was the exception, not the rule.

"Just watch my bag for me, please." 

Peter dropped bag and dustcoat both by the lookout and took out the machete he kept for when he had to go up against especially dangerous wildlife. He followed the road to the quarry, not bothering to keep his footsteps quiet, and threw himself into the fight. It went about as well as he expected.

He survived; he always did.

After, he limped back into town, reclaimed his bag, and stitched himself back up. He went back out to render the meat, leather, and claws and to collect the eggs. Someone in Sloane was interested in making deathclaw omelets. So long as they weren't hatching them into baby deathclaws, Peter was happy to get rid of them. He sold most of the meat, too. He repaired his armor and, maintenance done, did a few odd jobs around town. Their local pet and mascot was injured, and Peter provided some minor first aid. One of their generators needed repairs. Little things, but things he could take care of, so Peter did.

"Anything else?" Peter asked the man who'd been acting as a lookout.

"That's it. Unless you can fix the Powder Ganger problem? They're just down the road."

Peter winced. He had said he'd check with the ex-sheriff, Meyers, there if he wanted a job. There was no guarantee they weren't going to shoot him if he came swanning up after the Goodsprings thing, but a promise was a promise. "I can look into it."

—

He stopped by Goodsprings first to deliver some mail. At least everything there was calm. The Mr. Handy was even back in its little house on the edge of town.

—

Meyers was interested in the job if he got a pardon to go with it. Peter wasn't sure if it wouldn't be better to just build Primm a sheriff. Mr. Stark certainly made the robot overlords thing work for him. 

"I'll see what I can do," Peter said.

"Good. I'll head that way. I don't want to hang around here now that you've shown up."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Meyers gave him a flat look. "Courier, where you go, trouble follows, and everyone knows it. Whether it's trouble you help with or trouble you bring with you, it's still trouble. I'd rather not be here for it."

That ... was entirely too fair. The new head of the prison thought it was trouble Peter could help with and attempted to give Peter a job. "You want me to kill this guy."

"If you need to." Eddie shrugged. "How you handle it is up to you."

It was amazing how people simultaneously knew Peter and yet didn't know him at all. "Sure. I'll take care of it."

Peter warned a bounty hunter away—"Yeah, it definitely looks like you've got this under control," the guy said—and told a Powder Ganger named Chavez who was acting out that if he didn't knock it off, he was going to get himself killed, and not by the NCR. Then Eddie wanted Peter to help with establishing his power in the area and fighting off the NCR. Peter went to the NCR camp instead.

"You're willing to take care of it?" Lt. Hayes said disbelievingly.

"I just need someone to make sure they stay in their cells this time. And maybe guarantee you treat your prisoners better. I'm pretty sure slave labor is illegal in the NCR, too. If it's not, you should tell me now." Left unsaid was that Peter would change his stance from friendly helper to active saboteur, but that was none of this guy's business. He could find out when all his stuff stopped working just like everyone else.

"We're not letting you take this on on your own. You'll get killed."

"It takes a lot to put me down."

Lt. Hayes insisted they coordinate their attack. Peter nodded along with him until he stopped talking and then left to take care of it himself.

—

On the plus side, the lack of casualties gave him a lot of NCR cred, which helped with the pardon for Primm's new sheriff. On the minus side, the Powder Gangers really hated him now. That was okay. Peter wasn't out here to be popular. He dropped by the NCR outpost on the hill, cashed in another favor, and swung back by Primm to give Meyers the good news. Most of Primm was happy with the new sheriff. The deputy was upset, but he'd had the chance to take the job, so he had only himself to blame. Nash had no new special deliveries, but he loaded Peter up with the post for Novac.

Peter cut through the desert, picking some wild plants along the way and edging around the race track where all the ants nested. Along the way, he was ambushed by another hit squad, and he marched them to the NCR outpost on the way to Novac half-naked. At least there was plenty of prison space again.

"You guys are really persistent."

"Caesar will enjoy watching your half-dead body become a feast for crows. He will spill your guts, and your blood will water the cactus blooms."

"Yeah, yeah, and the vultures will peck out my eyes. I get the gist." Legion membership required a penchant for the dramatic. At least they carried a nice variety of fresh food. One guy had been carrying coyote tobacco and honey mesquite pods in his pockets, and Peter was looking forward to the camp coffee.

By the time he swung through Novac, a few days had passed. He was running a bit behind. This, right here, was why Peter tried not to accept any jobs that required him to stick to a schedule. He sold all the weapons and a few bits of legionary armor at the Dino, picked up another toy dinosaur to add to Ned's collection, and strolled up to the power plant.

"Everything's running fine," said the NCR guard at the doors. 

"Good to hear. I'm here for Ned."

The guard nodded and waved him through.

Ned was sitting in a room just off the main control room poking away at a cobbled together computer, frowning to himself. He looked up at Peter's knock and the frown bloomed into a full-blown smile. "Peter!"

"Ned!" Peter gathered him up into a hug. It had only been a couple weeks, but every time felt too long.

After a moment, Ned shoved him back to peer at him with open concern. "What's this I hear about you getting _shot in the head_?"

"That one's true. I got better."

"Obviously. Subduing the entire NCR prison system?"

"Sort of true. It was just one jail, and wow, news travels fast."

"Going into Stark Tower?" This one, Ned sounded doubtful about.

Peter rocked back on his heels. He couldn't help the smug smile. "Also true."

"Dude!"

"I know! I was even invited!" Though that was honestly the only way Peter thought anyone was getting through Mr. Stark's security system.

"Your life is so weird."

"It really is."

"Tell me everything. Leave no details out. Is everything really automated? Are the elevator doors made out of gold? Is Mr. Stark an immortal vampire cyborg who bathes in the blood of the innocent to keep his youthful figure?"

"It's not that youthful," Peter said.

Ned's eyes lit up. "You met him!"

"Not quite. Well, sort of." Under Ned's encouraging questioning, Peter divulged every detail, even some he hadn't realized he'd noticed the first time through. The conversation also revealed something else Peter hadn't quite realized until this point. "—and he has such long eyelashes, you would not believe it. Like, I don't think it should be allowed to be over a century old and still that pretty?"

"You, uh, you're really crushing hard, huh?" Ned asked.

Peter buried his face in Ned's shoulder. "So hard. He's just—so smart and so attractive, but he's also—" Peter made a noise of frustration. "He's arrogant and removed from everything, and I'm pretty sure he's spying on everyone with his Mr. Handies like a low-key voyeur."

Ned patted Peter on the back. "Think of it this way. At least it can't turn out as bad as with Harry."

"You've jinxed it."

"C'mon, even if he decides to indulge in the world's shortest fling before brutally dumping you, it's not like he's going to turn out to be Caesar's son. For one thing, he's way, way too old."

"Thanks, Ned."

Though Peter had been sarcastic, Ned was sincere as he said, "You're welcome." Ned gave Peter one last pat on the back before he pushed him away. "Now, what's the favor? You never come over just to catch up."

That was unfortunately mostly true. Peter didn't make a lot of time for social calls these days. "Can I at least hear about how things are going here first?"

"Two words: Mr. Fantastic."

Peter grimaced in sympathy. "Very descriptive."

"Isn't it?"

"Well, if you'd like, I'm offering a reprieve in favor of something worse."

"That sounds promising."

"It's promising a lot of trouble if it's not fixed."

Ned was exactly enthused to hear about Yes-Man as Peter was. "We're going to die. Mr. Stark is going to kill us."

"Yeah," Peter said. "Probably."

"Okay. I'm in."

This, right here, was why Ned was Peter's best friend.

—


End file.
